The Advantages of Please
by ecb327
Summary: Just in time for Valentine's Day, some Johnlock PWP! I love me some protective Sherlock, so you can expect that. Fluffy smut or smutty fluff, I'm not sure.


"John." Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa, gazing at the ceiling as John worked. "John."

"_What?_" John snapped, spinning around in irritation. "I'm trying to finish something here."

"I'm bored." Sherlock fixed him with a disturbingly keen stare. John turned back to his computer.

A moment later, predictably, the detective made a big show of heaving a sigh, then detangling himself from the couch cushions and coming over to John, breathing down the doctor's neck.

"John John John," he whined.

John felt heat rush to his face. God damn. "Stop it," he said flatly. If Sherlock got what he wanted all the time, he would never get anywhere in life. Instant gratification was a no.

"John." Whispers sent delicious shivers down his spine. Sherlock's face was buried in his shoulder, lips against his jawbone. Well. Maybe it was alright for Sherlock to get a little. He was working for it, after all. Quasi instant gratification.

"Leave me alone." John's valiant attempt was cruelly foiled when the younger man decided to add his arms to the equation, wrapping them snugly and giving a gentle squeeze.

"Please?"

He should never have given that bloody lecture on the advantages of "please." Came back to bite him in the ass, that.

"It's not because I'm bored."

That was unexpected, as well as intriguing. "What?"

"I'm not – just because I have nothing to do. I just want it." Sherlock looked suddenly uncomfortable.

"Oh." John hadn't a clue as to what to say. He pushed his laptop towards the center of the table. "Fine, then." He tilted his mouth up to meet Sherlock's, eyes fluttering shut. The freedom to do so was still a novelty, to know that this beautiful infuriating man was _his_ – Sherlock's hand was sliding up his thigh. Okay. That happened.

"Please," Sherlock added.

"I really do have work to –"

Sherlock kissed him again before he could finish his sentence. A long, deep, passionate kiss, hint of tongue tracing the contour of John's bottom lip, and how the fuck was he supposed to focus on anything now? Work could wait. The semi he was now sporting in his jeans could not.

"Are you deducing?" he murmured. Sherlock sucked lightly on his collarbone, then peppered kisses up to his earlobe.

"Bed?" the detective asked in response.

That was agreeable. He entwined his fingers with Sherlock's, pulling him down the hall and shutting the door carefully. Mrs. Hudson had overheard quite enough of their carnal undertakings, and while Sherlock seemed to have no shame, John did not particularly fancy accepting a cup of Earl Grey from an elderly woman who'd just spent the night subjected to the sound of her two renters copulating.

"John," whispered Sherlock, fingers ducking underneath the waistband of John's trousers, "please."

They tumbled onto the bed, Sherlock panting against John's neck, his arousal stiff and apparent against John's thigh. John trapped Sherlock's lips in his own, savoring the taste of his tongue and adding a nip for good measure. They moved together on the mattress, Sherlock's lean frame hovering protectively over John's, the unspoken promise hanging between them. _I will never, under any circumstances, allow anybody to hurt you._ Murmured words two nights ago, pressed into John's ear as he awoke from a nightmare.

Somehow their shirts ended up on the floor. Sherlock's hands explored John hungrily, sliding under his arse and lightly pushing against his perineum, a hint of what was to come. He pulled away for a moment, gazing at John with beautiful, dilated eyes, darkened to a rich emerald hue in desire.

"Okay?" asked John hoarsely.

"Okay," said Sherlock, and brought his slender fingers about John's cock.

Jesus fucking Christ. John let out an involuntary moan as Sherlock began pulling him off in long, languid strokes that prompted his hips to thrust wildly. Priorities flew out the window; all that mattered was the weight of Sherlock gliding on top of him and the texture of his thumb alternately smoothing over and applying pressure to his foreskin. Pre-come glistened and beaded at the top of his glans, lubricating his shaft as Sherlock's hand did obscene things.

"John," Sherlock huffed, and brought John's fingers around his own erection. John immediately set to work: he suppressed his own cries and focused instead on producing delicious noises from Sherlock, muffled against his mouth and tongue and teeth. They writhed, Sherlock's knee between John's legs, arm wrapped around the small of his back. Pulsing heat. Unbearable friction.

Sherlock brought John right to the edge, then paused. Kissed him, a tender kiss just shy of chaste. "Be mine," he said softly.

"I am," John replied, cock throbbing with want and good lord, he needed to be closer, needed to fill himself with Sherlock. His breathing slowed slightly; he was caught in the hard intensity of Sherlock's gaze, and said breathlessly, "You're gorgeous."

Sherlock buried his head in John's neck, hand tapping gentle patterns on John's bare skin, and shut his eyes for a moment, lashes fluttering against John's shoulder.

He reached for the lube and slipped a condom over his prick, then dipped his forefinger into the small tub. John shut his eyes; always uncomfortable, at first. Sherlock assessed the situation, cautiously reading John's expression – _is this okay? _– before entering.

"Oh god," said John as Sherlock's fingers moved inside him, and, "_Fuck," _as Sherlock, an expert when it came to navigating John's body, brushed against his prostate. John groaned uncontrollably at this small amount of penetration and gasped when Sherlock's tongue got involved, swirling circles around John's perineum as his index and middle fingers scissored against the tight hotness of his anus.

"Yes?" asked Sherlock, shifting, and John nodded shakily.

He was not prepared, was never prepared, for what came next. Sherlock sank into him, rigid and flushed and desperate for the feel of John surrounding him, enveloping him with warmth and ardor and passion so strong it ached, and John was complete, did not know how he had ever survived without the sensation of Sherlock's smooth thrusts, swollen lips skating over his own, succumbing to pure, all-encompassing bliss.

Sherlock had flawless aim and, as he pumped his hand up and down John's cock, both men panting, hit John's prostate once, twice, until it was about to burst and John was crying for release and then he was coming, Sherlock was coming, Sherlock was pulling him closer even as his limbs shook from the orgasm, Sherlock had his hand clamped around John's neck... _Sherlock_.

They stayed perfectly still for a solid minute, semen sticky and splattered across John's abdomen, and Sherlock swiped at it, caught a droplet on his thumb and smeared it across his tongue, swallowing before pulling out.

"Stay," Sherlock murmured, adjusting his position so that he was on his side, arms folding John into his chest.

John curled against him and whispered, "Okay."

Sherlock burrowed his face into John's neck again, an intimate and vulnerable gesture. _I need you. _"You know I meant it."

John stroked a hand through Sherlock's curls. "Meant what?"

"I won't let anybody hurt you. Ever."

"I know." John kissed Sherlock's shoulder, collarbone, earlobe, and sighed. "I know."


End file.
